Double, Double, Toil and Trouble
by blackdragonsghost
Summary: Sequel to 'Thrice the Brindéd Cat Hath Mewed'. Written almost entirely from Diablo's POV. Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a feline prodigy and having an uncouth human priest as a father! Very understated slash, Gerald and Damien being all wonderfully domestic, and scheming felines abound herein.


_Author's Note: Merry Christmas, Hobgoblin! A special treat: all Diablo, all the time. This was insanely fun to write, and I must recommend the practice of writing cat!POV - no human character could ever be as fun to emulate as it was to slip into Diablo's devious little mind. This would have been posted much sooner - in fact, I planned to get it up on the 24th - however, my family decided to ambush me with a Christmas get-together to celebrate my return from South Korea. All my myriad aunts, uncles, and cousins showed up, and I've been partying hard with the rest of my sprawling clan, hence the delay in posting. They're staying until the second of January, so... whew. Chaos. Anyway, merry belated Christmas, darling, hope you and everyone else enjoys this ridiculous little piece!_

_Warnings: Feline plotting and ridiculously complicated diction. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Gerald Tarrant, Damien Vryce, or the Forest. The brood of semi-sociopathic felines are all mine, though. _

_A.N.2: The title's Shakespeare, again. Also Macbeth. Seems to have worked the first time, why fix it if it isn't broken, right? _

_A.N.3: In other news, this was proofread by my cousin Helga. The one with no sense of humor who prompted my HP fic 'That's Called Insulting The Balrog' and inspired the prequel to this, 'Thrice the Brindéd Cat Hath Mewed!', via her overwhelming fear of snakes. Yeah, she was my beta for this piece - not by my choice, she just plunked down on the couch and started reading over my shoulder, which is exactly why this is being posted first and not one of my slashier pieces. No way in hell I'd work on those with her around. Anyway, she read this, gave me this weird look, and said "I thought your online pal was from Germany. I grew up here in Canada and I can barely work out what this bloody cat is saying, what the heck were you thinking?". This is why I have a complicated relationship with Helga. She's a lovely person, really, but she can be a bit of a bitch sometimes. I informed her rather coolly that I'd already had a similar discussion with an unkind reviewer, and she obviously noticed my tone, because she backed off quick. Honestly, though! I don't know about you, Hobgoblin dear, but I'd be insulted if I thought someone was 'dumbing down' their work because they assumed it was too technical for me to understand! I have every confidence in your aptitude with English, or even failing that, with a dictionary. Seriously, has she never read a book? I run across words I don't know pretty often, actually - especially when reading Tolkien - and I look them up! Besides; if Ms Friedman is going to go around making up words like 'diamondine' to gush about how beautiful Gerald is, I'm damn well going to write about a well-spoken cat with delusions of grandeur. ...Aaaand, that concludes my rant for the day. Thank you one and all for listening, I'm just going to go put this soapbox away... *slinks off* This is the trouble with family. You love them to bits, but they drive you up the wall anyway._

...

...

_**Entry 1:**_

_Success, at last. Parents still unaware of my achievement. Intuition tells me this is a desirable state of affairs; Father may be upset by my precociousness. _

I have, at great length and after much expenditure of effort, accomplished the feat of freeing the stopper from a bottle of ink on Mother's desk. This project was embarked upon several moons ago, once I learned that these flat objects possessed a purpose greater than the delightful crinkling noise they may produced when chewed; they can record thoughts, so that greatness may be preserved for future generations in desperate need of enlightenment. At least, this is how Mother phrased the matter; I believe he was speaking to Father at the time. I do not think Father is very bright, if he has not managed to grasp the ramifications of such potential for long-lasting legacies.

I am never quite sure how fond I am of Father. He is very warm, and his chest makes a wonderfully sturdy sleeping platform. However, he does not carry food on his person at all times, and he snores. Mother is much more demure... and he is never without a tasty morsel with which to assuage my near-constant pangs of hunger. Mother is also terribly fastidious, though, and objects to my judicious application of claws upon his clothing to obtain a perch on his shoulder.

My parents can be so terribly confusing. Worse still, Father never explains his strange behaviour to me, and Mother only rarely - do they not wish to educate me further in the ways of their species? For I have, after much early befuddlement, discovered that we are not of the same breed. I can only conclude that despite being a mated pair, my parents were unable to produce offspring of their own, and so were forced to obtain my siblings and I as substitutes. I am still dwelling on this matter.

I must leave my first entry upon this pensive note, as I sense a delectable aroma drifting upon the air. I think Mother is making fish for my dinner.

_**Entry 2:**_

_Tensions escalating. Severe consequences loom._

The situation with Father has grown dire: I fear outright war may lie on the horizon. It has been several days since my last entry, and in that interval, I contemplated the matter of my adoption. Feeling the first pangs of sympathy that my parents could not have a litter of their own, I resolved to be kinder to Father. I began bringing him the remnants of the rats I had bravely slain in the cellars of the castle, as tokens of my deep affections for him.

Father was highly unappreciative of my selfless gifts, demanding that they be removed from my parents' bedchamber. Thinking that he might have misunderstood my intentions, I ceased leaving my offerings on the carpet inside the door and instead deposited them directly upon his pillow, but this seemed only to increase his distress. Mother, at least, understood - he seemed very proud of me, and told me several times that it was very sweet of me to leave such nice gifts for Father. He also told me that Father doesn't quite understand how truly enlightened people think, and so can't quite appreciate the depth of Mother and I's intelligence. This pacified me, but the matter was not yet resolved.

Yesterday, I made one last attempt at peace: I captured a rat alive, at great personal risk, and dragged the fearsome creature all the way up to the living quarters. There, I placed it inside a convenient receptacle of some musty material to keep it as a living captive, so that Father might see the proof of my bravery and admire my skills as a hunter. Sadly, Father can be rather inattentive - and, as I have previously mentioned, not overly intelligent. He carelessly placed his feet inside these objects, and the rat objected to this intrusion by biting his left foot. Upon further reflection, I admit that it may have been unrealistic to assume that Father's skill as a hunter was near enough my own to prevent the rat from being a threat to him, but I still declare that Father's punishment for this oversight was so far out of proportion as to be tantamount to a declaration of war.

He withheld the succulent canary Mother had prepared for my dinner, and instead fed me on some hideously dry compound of plant matter, dust, and what I am quite certain was old dog hair! These compressed pellets of offal smelled so foul that at first I feared they might be poison!

Indignant to the point of fury, I dragged my contaminated dish to Mother's study. Upon discovering the substance, Mother was appropriately sympathetic; he informed me, to my horror, that this retched substance was the fare consumed by those unfortunate members of my race who inhabit the lowly hovels of the poorer exemplars of my parents' species. Even as my very soul rebelled at the thought of being fed such refuse, my heart cried out in anguish for those poor, suffering creatures who must consume such dreadful matter to survive! I have resolved that, one day, I shall ensure the liberation of my downtrodden brethren and effect a revolution in which we shall rise to take our proper place alongside the very upper echelons of my parents' species. For now, however, I shall content myself with exacting revenge upon my father for this most heinous of slights.

He is my father, and so I love him, but that will not stop me from wreaking unholy havoc on his life.

_**Entry 3:**_

_Operation: Vengeance proceeds. Mother is catching on._

My initial sallies against Father's attempted oppression met with marvelous success. I have enlisted the help of my fellows - my sire, Tibbles, and my dam, Catarina, were most enthused when I told them of my plans, and my many, many siblings were happy to assist as well. I am not entirely sure how many brothers and sisters I now possess, to be honest; Tibbles and Catarina have proved very fertile, and the castle is nigh overrun by my legion siblings. None of them can approach my majesty or my shining wit, of course, and there are none held so highly in Mother's regard as myself, but I feel a certain indulgent fondness for them nonetheless. After all, they are blood of my blood, no matter how bereft they may be of such gifts as my own glorious intelligence.

I began with the very essence of simplicity; using those methods which had already been proven. I knew from long and careful observation that few things anger Father more than my interference with his personal belongings, and so I passed precise instructions to my siblings as to their targets. Father awoke the first morning of the war to find that every article of cloth-based garb he possessed had been slowly and stealthily removed from his wardrobe during the night, leaving him only the ridiculous, shapeless garment in which he sleeps. Having deemed them important in some way, I also had the forethought to remove those musty objects in which he had so protested the presence of my earlier gift. The cloth was secreted in many places throughout the keep, most of it incorporated into the various beds of my siblings; the leather objects were deposited in the cellars, quite near a large conglomeration of those spiny, many-legged little creatures which create such fascinating webs and to which Father has shown such an aversion.

His screams of fury were deliciously satisfying to my keen feline ears.

I struck next in the kitchen, the origin of Father's hideous insult. It was a simple matter to find the source of the revolting odor that emanates from that so-called 'cat food'; I pried the catch on the lid open with ease, and proceeded to take my revenge. I distributed the stomach-turning substance among all the cupboards containing Father's favorite foodstuffs; where it was possible to open the containers I placed the 'cat food' inside, along with his own sustenance, and where the canisters proved impregnable I simply scattered a healthy amount of that sickening crumble across the shelves all around. I completed this task alone, whilst Mother and Father were occupied in dealing with the garment theft perpetrated by my siblings, thus leaving me to fulfill my mission unmolested. Again, Father's reaction was memorable, as much for his volume as for his colorful choice of words.

My masterstroke was a work of true genius. Many times, I have observed Father shuffling about the keep with strange things upon his feet; they appear to be formed of cloth, and are quite thick and soft to the touch. Father calls them 'slippers', though they do not seem to reduce friction with the floor in any noticeable way; another of his oddities, I suppose. Father is very fond of them, though, and is rarely seen without them - for a long time, though, I was unable to discern where he concealed them when they were not in use. At long last, after several nights of constant vigil, I discovered the answer. The bottom portion of the large wooden platform that stands next to Mother and Father's bed is hollow inside; there is a piece of wood cut out at the front, which swings open on one edge by some unknown means to reveal the interior. It is within this secret cavity that Father hides his beloved 'slippers'. Just last night, I induced my siblings to create a cacophony of noise on the floor below; after Father arose from bed and descended the steps in haste to assess the situation, I slipped into the bedchamber and succeeded in gaining access to the hidden cavity by means of a piece of metal conveniently embedded in the wood. I took the cloth 'slippers' from their hiding place and pushed the wood back into place, escaping before Father returned. I then spent the rest of the night concealed in a private niche in the library, carefully and methodically shredding the woven material of these 'slippers' back into its component fibers. I then conveyed these fibers back to the bedchamber, and piled them neatly at the foot of the bed, to await Father's awakening in the morning.

Mother was most displeased to woken early by Father's emphatic noises of dismay.

Speaking of Mother, he has seemed a bit perturbed lately. He had not been speaking to me much since my endeavours began; I fear he may be angry that my campaign was so successful. I shall bring him a dead rat to reclaim his goodwill. Mother, at least, understands my kindnesses.

_**Entry 4:**_

_Proper communication established at last._

Finally, Mother has discovered a way for me to communicate with him as he does with me; that is to say, vocally, rather than through gifts of slain vermin. He appears to have crafted a Working that translates my meows to understandable syllables of his species' language in his mind. He has also discovered this journal I have been keeping. He seemed quite astonished at first, and though he struggled in the beginning to comprehend the slightly warped lines inscribed by my ink-dipped claws, he seems to have grasped my meaning nicely now. We have spoken at length about many of the concerns I noted down herein, and he has now summoned Father to discuss the situation. Mother also kindly returned the journal to me, so that I might make note of proceedings for future reference.

I must declare Operation Vengeance a mighty success.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

Falling back in his chair, Gerald _laughed_.

Glaring, Damien planted his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Are you going to tell me exactly what is so amusing?"

Still quivering with mirth, Gerald looked up, grey eyes sparkling: Damien's heart melted, just a little, at seeing his husband so happy, but he did his best to keep up his glare for appearances' sake. If Gerald realized just how much power his smile had over Damien, the Knight would lose what little leverage he had against his beautiful, impossibly stubborn adept. Gerald shook his head, eyes glittering as he said, "You won't believe what inspired this reign of terror that Diablo's been wreaking on our household."

Damien frowned. "So he actually does have a reason?" Privately, the former priest was more than a little relieved; when Gerald had said that he was going to try to craft a Working that would enable him to understand Diablo, Damien had had serious concerns that his husband had finally lost his mind, but it seemed that speaking with animals was just another of the many impossible things that Gerald Tarrant could accomplish. At least now they would get to the bottom of the chaos that had enveloped the Hunter's Keep for the last four days.

He was still reserving judgement on the plausibility of a cat knowing how to write, though. If Gerald wasn't insane, then somebody had been tampering with their kitten's brain, because there was no way that any animal was that smart naturally.

"Yes." Gerald shoulders shook with suppressed mirth as he tilted his head toward the sleek little black cat, which was sitting on a nearby footstool and looking at Damien with an impossibly imperial expression. "He's furious - nay, _livid_ - at you, for _daring_ to feed him common cat kibble the other night."

Damien's jaw dropped. "_What?_"

"Mmhm." Gerald's lips twisted as he tried and failed to repress a grin. "It may also interest you to know that he also considers us to be adoptive parents - he's been referring to me as 'Mother' for the last hour, and he hasn't used your name even once, just 'Father'. Also, the live rat in your shoe was supposed to be a gift; he was trying to smooth things over by proving what a skilled hunter he is. The poor thing was terribly insulted by your repeated refusal of his... tokens of esteem."

The Knight groaned. "Oh, God. Seriously?" At that moment, he made the mistake of looking at Diablo again. The cat had drawn its tail up and wrapped it tightly around his forelegs in a neat curve; he was sitting up straight and proud, expression haughty yet somehow wounded, with those big aquamarine eyes shining up at Damien. Damien could actually _feel_ his defenses melting, and he sighed in resignation before crouching down so he was on eye level with Diablo.

"Alright, you little terror; I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I'm sure you and Gerald have had a lot of long conversations about how I'm not nearly as bright as you two, so you'll probably not be surprised when I say that I didn't realize the dead animals in my bed were intended as gifts. And I'm deeply sorry I offended you by trying to feed you kibble."

If Damien still had any doubts about his husband's theories on the cat's intelligence, they were dealt with when Diablo instantly burst into a storm of purring. Standing up, the cat slinked forward and jumped onto Damien's shoulder; as the Knight stood up again, startled, the cat simply curled itself around his neck like a fur stole and settled there, rumbling happily and kneading his shoulder with its sharp little claws.

Gerald smiled beatifically. "Ah, so nice to have the family all on speaking terms again."

Damien glared at him. "This is all your fault. Somehow, I just know it. It's slow, protracted revenge for making you bring Tibbles with us. Well, and adopting Catarina too."

"_And_ their forty-one offspring. It wouldn't do to forget about their forty-one offspring." Gerald said dryly, rolling his eyes. "Unfortunately, darling, as much as I would like to claim the credit, I have no idea how this happened. I'm afraid Diablo is simply... extraordinary. And perhaps a touch difficult."

Damien looked down into the cat's sleepy, half-closed, glowing turquoise eyes and sighed, before grinning.

"Well... like mother, like son, I suppose."

Gerald threw an empty inkwell at him.

...

...

_Why do I get the feeling this isn't the last piece I'll write with this little furball of doom? And yes, of course Diablo considers it an act of war to try and feed him regular cat food. He's GERALD TARRANT'S cat, what do you expect?_


End file.
